Requiem for the Stagnant
by thebluefrenchhorn
Summary: George doesn't understand how their can be so much happiness in a world devoid of Fred Weasley. Angelina doesn't understand that George isn't Fred. Two very broken individuals are joined by unfortunate circumstances, shoved together like two puzzle pieces that look compatible enough, but don't quite fit.


Requiem for the Stagnant

* * *

Everything is the same after the war.

Tears are shed and bodies are buried, but things inevitably go back to the way they once were. The survivors pasting on fake smiles, fake smiles that soon turn into real smiles, because they have to be strong for the next generation, their offspring, who will come into a world not torn by war or prejudice or corruption (or at least, a world that hides all of those things very well).

George doesn't understand it.

He doesn't understand how people can just move on; hope spilling forth from them like a premature fountain of youth. How can the Wizarding World push forward when their loved one's, their most sacred treasures, have been snatched from them, leaving only tattered memories and broken hearts in their wake? How can their be so much happiness and joy in a world devoid of Fred Weasley?

No, George does not understand it, but he tries to.

He begins dating Angelina Johnson, and they're married far too quickly, laughing and grinning and so very in love as their friends and family gush over what a lovely couple they make. But, they're not really in love, because Angelina doesn't love George, she loves Fred (she'll never realize this, because, like everybody else, she can't wrap her mind around the fact that Fred and George, albeit rather identical in appearance, are not the same person and can not be slotted into each other's places as a form of replacement) and George is far too caught in his web of lies and false hope to even be able to discern what happiness is, much less love.

The first few months of their marriage actually don't go that badly. Angelina manages to snag a coaching position for a youth Quidditch club and although the pay isn't amazing, it's certainly nothing to sniff at. George is having more good days than bad, and even during his very worst days, the one's where he feels absolutely worthless and can't even muster the energy to get out of bed, Angelina comes to his side, nursing a cup of coffee as she gently strokes his hair.

Their relationship is messy and dysfunctional, the result of two desperate and broken people trying to find some sense of semblance in the world, but it seems to be working...for now, because eventually a relationship built off such shaky foundations will crumble.

It's only a matter of time.

And that time does come.

Like a series of unfortunate events, Angelina becomes pregnant, and George shuts down the joke shop, his love for pranking having turned down the road of apathy. He doesn't get another job, and it's not because he can't get another job (having the Boy-Who-Lived as your brother-in-law did have its perks), but rather because he doesn't want to leave his house, much less get a new job in a world that constantly reminds him of Fred.

Angelina doesn't understand and she can't even begin to comprehend how draining it is just for George to spend time with his son, Fred, who she named in honor of the very thing he's trying to forget (and isn't there a bit of irony in that?).

Her throat is raw as she screams at him one night, her eyes wild and desperate.

"I can't do this all alone!" she shouts.

George doesn't look at her, his eyes downcast, because how can she not realize that he already blames himself, that he feels utterly terrible for dragging her into this mess, because it's his fault - it's always his fault.

"Say something!" she screams, her voice more pleading than angry. "Don't just stare at me blankly, please, please, just respond…" she trails off, sniffles muffling her words and at that moment it strikes George just how young they both truly are.

"I'm sorry…" comes George's response, his voice soft as he hugs his skeletal frame - he barely eats anything and the stuff that he does manage to shovel in is thrown-up half of the time.

"You can't lay in your bed all day!" Angelina says, "because one day Fred is going to start asking questions and I can't have whatever you're dealing with affecting him."

George bites on his lip and absently rubs his back which is bright red from the far-too-hot showers that he takes.

"I just, j-just," her voice breaks, "I just can't take care of two children."

George knows that she doesn't mean to be rude; that she is just trying to protect her child, but that doesn't stop her words from cutting into him, the label of 'child', not spouse, not even peer, hanging over his head. Because that's what he's been reduced to, hasn't he? Just another responsibility for Angelina to write down on her chore list. 'Made sure that George hasn't killed himself yet, check'.

"Than perhaps I should leave."

Her body shakes at his words and maybe, if George was a less damaged man, he would have scooped her up in his arms and told her that everything would be alright. But things like that only happen in those romance books that Ginny used to, and still does, love so much, and it's not all too surprising that the pieces of their marriage, which had been only connected by the weakest of sticking charms to begin with, fall apart.

As if sensing the finality in his statement, Angelina levels her gaze at him, the glint of a mother willing to do anything for her child present in her obsidian eyes. "Yes, perhaps you should."

The door closes behind him as he exits her house, because it never really was his own, and he feels a stab of complete and utter self-loathing as he catches sight of the sad, little smile that has made it's home on Angelina's face. He knows she loves him, or at least thinks she does, but he doesn't love her, nor will he probably ever.

She is truly better without him, a whirlwind of destruction and pain and loss, in her life and it is with this in mind that he latches onto the first sharp object he can find, a shard of glass, and drags it across his skin. The cut is ragged and uneven and for the first time in forever he is vividly feeling an emotion - pain - and not just utter hollowness.

Droplets of blood splatter onto the ground below him and it is then, in all of its anticlimactic glory and seated in a dingy side alley, that George Weasley's consciousness departs from the world.

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** All rights reserved to the original creator

 **Author's Note:** Recently, the idea of writing a post-war, depressed George Weasley struck me. If I am being honest, the whole thing was rather impromptu and within three hours of furiously typing and drinking two bottles of water, the story you see before you was created. I, for one, do not have depression, therefore all of my knowledge is second-hand from my friends and research I had done, so I sincerely apologize if it was badly characterized. What I found most fascinating while writing this one-shot was the simple fact that the Wizarding World doesn't appear to have any knowledge on mental illnesses, therefore George, and many other characters dealing with mental illnesses, would never be able to get treatment or support they needed. Personally, this concept greatly saddens me and I'm hoping that J.K., if she hasn't done so already, will address this topic in the future. As always, thank you so much for spending the time to check out one of my stories!


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